The Silence Broken
by Rogo
Summary: A daring and witty young woman finds herself homeless but then discovers shelter in the abandoned Opera Populaire. While running from her dark past she is wounded and saved by the Phantom only to discover she is stranded in his care. ..
1. A Warm breath in the Cold

**Authors Note: Hi! This is my first Phanfic so please go easy on me! Oh, and if you have any suggestions on what should happen next you can write it in a review or e-mail it to me (my e-mail is in my Personal Profile) because I am having trouble figuring out what to write next. You don't know much about Manon _yet_ but when you learn more you could just send me those suggestions. Thanks. Now on with the story! **

**Summary: A daring and witty young woman finds herself homeless but then discovers shelter in the abandoned Opera Populaire. While running from her dark past she is wounded and saved by the Phantom only to discover she is stranded in his care. .. **

**Chapter one**

The air was cold and hollow that night. The wind barely blew, merely ruffling a few strands from the tight satin ribbon that held the specter's dark hair in place. That evening this specter hid in the shadows cast by one of many large gargoyles on the roof of the Opera Populaire. He crouched at the edge of the roof, one hand wrapped around the leg of the stone statue, ensuring his safety.

His dark eyes cast outwards; The Phantom of the Opera looked out upon Paris, upon its dark empty streets and its black windows. He could see no one about at that hour, except a young lamplighter, wrapped tightly in a scarf and hat, before the abandoned opera house, carefully lighting a lamp with a long pole. He watched the boy without real interest, just blankly staring. It took less than a few minutes for him to light five lamps in the empty square. Then boy quickly trudged into a smaller street, the phantom watching as he lit street lamp after street lamp until he disappeared from sight. The phantom continued to stare bleakly into the darkness for a few more moments. Then closing his eyes and gathering his wits he reminded himself of his place. Grunting, he sat back against the cold stone, resting his arms languidly on bent knees.

_I'm getting far too old for this _he thought gritting his teeth at the slight aching in his muscles.

The phantom let out a soft growl as his eyes caught sight of the shredding threads on the edges of his cloak. Despite his careful care of what was left of his garments three long years had started to show. It had been three years since _that _night, three long years since they found his haven in the depths of the opera house, thee long years since they raided it of what was valuable and thee long years since _they_ fled.

The specter's eyes flew to a spot not five yards off. Vivid images flooded into his mind, and songs into his heart.

**_No more talk of darkness, forget these wide-eyed fears, I'm here, nothing can harm you,  
and my words will warm and calm you… _**

_Her eyes were wide and full of warmth as she look at this man. Their eyes never left each other and every movement, every word, expressed their love. _

**_Say you love me every waking moment, turn my head with talk of summertime, say you need me with you now and always, promise me that all you say is true, that's all I ask of you…_**

As these memories returned, it felt as if an icy iron grip had begun tearing his heart to shreds as it did those years ago. Tears threatened to fall from the Phantom's eyes and a taut heated shout escaped from his throat.

" Laisser quelqu'un tranquille!"_(Leave me be!) _he cried at the unseen lovers that stood in the distance. He rose to his feet, eyes blazing. " Laisser quelqu'un tranquille!" he roared again.

* * *

It was so cold that night, bitter and dark. Though that evening was really no different from every other night on these wretched streets, Manon Moreau could not help feel vulnerable, and she _hated _feeling vulnerable. Perhaps it was because that _bastard_, that _rat_ had squealed her out, she thought inwardly. As she trudged, feet dragging on the cobble stone streets, Manon foraged though her mind looking for the worse insults and curses she could call that man who had sold her out just because her rent was late by a day. A day! 

_One idiotic, damn, hell-of-a da-_ Manon's thoughts were interrupted.

She stared at the structure before her, a hint of a smile growing at the corner of her lips. It stood towering before her, in the center of a empty plaza. The Opera Populaire. She stood at the foot of its stone staircase that led to six dirty stone columns, and through it a door, heavily boarded up.

It had been many long years since Manon had first set eyes upon the opera house. She had passed it once in her childhood. From a faint memory, she could remember it had been a magnificent site, clean and fashionable. Though she had never been inside she could faintly recall the warm quiet words of her brother,

"_One day, I'll take you inside, little one, and you'll see it and be in awe as I was when I first saw it. It's said that there is a _

_ghost that haunts it, a demon they say, with a monstrous face, but with the voice of an angel." _

_He gently held her, still a small girl at the time, both of them gazing up at the grand structure, and whispered _

"_And perhaps… Together, we'll seek this Phantom of the Opera out and ask him to sing for us."_

That day never came, Manon remembered bearing her teeth. Shaking her head, she once again looked up at it. This was no longer the opera house she had seen fifteen years ago. It's columns were grimy and ruff, and the doors were heavily boarded up with wood.

However, its unfortunate current state was what one could call a blessing. The opera house could provide some warmth and a place to sleep for Manon who was desperately cold and in need of shelter. She made her way to the large boarded door and putting down her sack, began to pry at the boards. To her great surprise the first one she pulled at gave way immediately and she painfully fell backwards on her rump. Muttering curses under her breath she got up and peered through the open space. She was also surprised to find that the great opera door she had seen before was no longer there, and through the boards she could see… well, nothing at all. It was far too dark. After many minutes Manon had finally pried enough boards to make a large enough space for her to climb though.

As her eyes began to adjust to the darkness she could faintly make that she was in the theater's grand foyer. In the dark, she gazed in wonder at the large curving staircase before her. Above and around her were ornate balconies and provocative statues carved into the walls. Stifling smells of burnt wood and rotting curtains were caught in the air. It would have been magnificent to see the foyer, glowing and gleaming at it's height a few years before. But now the stairs were covered with cobwebs, the marble floors covered with dirt and dust, and the seductive statues menacing in the darkness.

Manon explored the foyer for a few more minutes and then almost blindly made her way up the grand staircase and into the Theater.

She rubbed her arms; it was quiet chilly inside. Yet… it was not only the cold that sent a shiver down her spine. No, it was something else, yet Manon could not quite tell what it was that made her uneasy. She moved forward and into the theater. Opera Populaire's theater would have been as grand as the foyer, perhaps even more. However, Manon could now see a great fire and years of rejection of cleaning had taken its toll it. Many of the seats closer to the stage were black and scorched, obviously from a fire of some sort. As she moved forward she could see that the deep crimson velvet curtains on the stage were tatted and burnt.

All of a sudden, in the corner of her eye, Manon could have sworn on her life that she had seen a fleeting shadow dart from somewhere in the balcony boxes. Her eyes and ears alert she looked around suspiciously. It was only in that moment that she noticed how dark it was inside. She could feel a slight fear fill her stomach as her eyes traveled up into the dark balconies. The sensuous gold-hue figures that entwined themselves around the loge boxes were lusty enough to strike desire into one's body but at that moment, as she gazed up at them, Manon's heart beat not out of longing but out of a growing dread within her.

_There is someone else in here, _Manon thought frantically. _Manon! Stop it! You never did believe in the ghost of the opera house. Do not start now! You are scaring yourself! What would Charles thank of you now? You are not a frightened child. There is no one else in here. Just find a good box to sleep in and you'll be out by morning. _ Closing her eyes, she steadied her breath and then opened her eyes again. Scanning the seats, Manon picked out an isle seat that was not scorched.

Yet as Manon made her way towards it she heard it… a rustle, barely audible; in the large space of the theater even the most silent of sounds were heard.

"Who is there?" She growled, turning, eyes frantically searching for the assailant.

Manon was growing increasingly cold and was now very aware how dark it was. All the shadows around her seemed to move and rustle.

Still looking for this unseen specter in the gloom, she stopped suddenly, heart beating loudly in her breast and silence ringing horribly in her ears.

And Manon felt it. In the cold air of the theater,

like a searing blade, a warm breath crossed the back of her neck.

( **I just added the French: _leave me be_ just for fun. ) **

**Please review and tell me if I made any errors! And please no flames (they scare me); I do accept constructive criticism though. Thanks so Much! **


	2. To Fight with a Ghost

**AN: I hope you like this chapter! **

**Chapter two **

The Phantom of the Opera stared at this intruder from _his _box, box five. Dark eyes blazing, he carefully watched this woman as she stood in the darkness, her eyes wandering though the theater. This was the first time a person had ever dared enter _his _opera house.

_Very brave, _he thought _and very foolish. _

The phantom's wrath was harsh upon those who entered _his_ domain, _his_ opera house since its closing. And that night he was not in a good mood. He had just returned from the roof and was still in a rage regarding painful memories. The sight of this woman made him livid; especially when the sight of her dark wavy brown hair and pale skin brought back even more unwanted memories of another woman. Despite his irritation he kept his calm, and examined her from afar. He could tell she was cold when she rubbed her arms and shoulders. She was clad in a men's frock cloak that reached her thighs, a brown skirt that resembled an empire dress and as she walked, he could see that under her long garb were rugged Hessian boots. This woman's dress, obviously layered to keep out the cold did not hide her long willowy from; neither did it hide her graceful pallid neck and strong chin. Dark cinnamon hair fell before dusky autumn eyes and dark brows, in unruly curls.

Moving quickly he attempted to avoid her gaze but with no avail. Her head whipped around just enough to catch sight of him darting out of the box.

"Who is there?" He heard a hollow voice call. By habit and instinct the Phantom took notice of her voice. It was a deep velvety voice like a hoarse flute. Not a voice for singing.

He was growing incessantly tired of this woman. He could tell she was poor and stubborn and would not leave any time soon.

_Perhaps she will be good target practice…_ he thought in his anger.

* * *

Manon, fuming and bothered, whipped around only to meet heated eyes that mirrored her own. A towering man in a black cloak stood before her and in his hand a long sword with a hilt that resembled a skull. Yet, it was not the sharp saber that fazed her but the glowing white mask that rested on the right side of his face. 

The woman turned so swiftly that it caught him off guard. Her eyes were blazing as she faced him. For a moment a look of surprise crossed her face but immediately disappeared to once again be replaced with rage.

In the next moment the phantom could not decide whether he was more surprised at the fact that she, herself pulled out a glinting saber of her own or the fact that she knew how to use it. He had not noticed the sword under her long frock cloak.

Regaining his composure, the Phantom was the one to move first when he lunged at her. Taking his offensive as an indication that he wanted to harm her she fought back furiously, swinging at him again and again with furious strokes.

"Who are you?" He heard her breathe, teeth bared. He didn't answer her. "Are you trying to frighten me?" She said as he unsuccessfully thrust at her again.

"No, I'm trying to kill you."

The Phantom could not believe this, he was infuriated and humiliated. He was fighting a child! A _girl_! And he was starting to break sweat. This woman was steadfast and if she was tiring, she hid her exhaustion it well.

It was suddenly that Manon moved forward and with a swiping movement knocked this Phantom's sword from his hand. Without a beat, as if he had been expecting it, grasped her wrist with a gloved hand and threw her to the ground. Manon gasped as her head hit the solid leg of a seat. Her head was still spinning as she got to her feet, barley noticing the warm crimson blood seeping from her brow. She lunged at him, throwing a blow at his masked head. He was far too quick for her; he ducked her fist, grabbed her shoulder and struck her with his wrist. She fell to the ground.

He strode towards her and tightly grasped her throat, his lip curling into a wicked smirk. "Are you frightened now, you insolent harlot?" he sneered through his teeth. Her hands were frantically tugging at the hand that held her throat, yet her eyes were not full of fear but determination and vengeance. He felt her start to tremble under his hand; she was gasping now and yet her face showed no sign of fear. Her brown eyes bore into his. He had not seen such defiance, such audacity in a woman before. Through his mind edged his hand to tighten, to squeeze just a bit harder and take her life, another voice, not from his mind but from a soul of a distant past told him otherwise. Grunting, he flung her to the ground and she lay there, coughing and gasping for air.

She tried to stand but her head spun and she fell back to her knees kneading her throat. The woman looked up at him with abhorrence, brown eyes smoldering, blood running from her brow and lip. Their eyes bore into each others for a few moments. And with that, The Phantom of the Opera retrieved his sword and disappeared into the darkness leaving Manon to lick her wounds.

**Yay! Done with the second chapter! Sorry it is so short. I hope I can gather enough strength to write another chapter! Your reviews will help! (Sneaky aren't I?) So review! Thanks. **


	3. The flight into the Opera House

**Authors Note: **

**gerfan****: Kinda, my username _is_ the name of Aragorn's horse from LOTR, and it also means 'to ask' in Latin but I just liked the name. (Sort of funny isn't it? I'm named after a horse! Haha!" **

**xxXGoddessXofXdeadXloveXxx****: Thanks for your review! And I think I will need your help later on! :)  
**

**Lady Nessa****: Here you go! Just what you ordered. With a cherry on top! **

**daddies-little-girl90****: Keep writing I will. I will try to write longer chapters, Master. (I'm a Star Wars fan too!) **

**Thank you so much to all who reviewed! Thanks guys! I LOVE YOU! gives all of you a big group hug **

**Chapter two **

Manon had lain on the dusty carpets of the theater for only a few moments more while she regained her breath. Bruised, bleeding and dizzy she dared not stay any longer. With a faint head and a particularly bruised pride she got up and retrieved both her foil and sack, and quickly took her leave from the opera house. It was not until she a found a water pump a few streets away did she truly comprehend what had happened.

She pulled out a simple piece of white cloth from her ruff sack and drenched it in the cool water that sputtered from the spout. She sat down; back against the pump and began to gently clean the blood from her face. It was in the freezing cold that Manon closed her eyes and started to think.

_This is ridiculous; I must have been dreaming _she thought disbelievingly for a moment. Yet is the soft street lantern light she looked at the blood that stained the white cloth in her hand. _It appears I did not, _

Many questions streamed into her head. _Who was he? _That was actually a question that she thought she new that answer to. _He must have been The Phantom of the Opera, the one that Charles talked of, or at least a lunatic that thinks he is the ghost. _

Then the image of his face hovered in her mind, haunting her. It had been dark in the theater but she had seen him, glowing mask and all. She remembered his eyes, his left eye some shade of brown, the other one, the one behind the mask, a misty gray. Now that she thought of it, she noticed the memory of the left side of his face to be… distinguished, perhaps even handsome. Manon almost gagged.

_Goodness, this ghost, this man, whatever he might be, tried to kill you, _she paused _but he didn't. _She remembered his blazing eyes as he choked her, she remembered how they faltered before he let her go. Touching her throat, she could almost feel his firm fingers still clutching. Manon, pulling out a broken piece of mirror from her sack, lifted her head and examined the purple marks of his hand on her neck.

Her eyes glazed over for a moment as she remembered how it felt, death. No air, no thought, only the will to live. She didn't understand, she always thought that she would welcome death when came. Manon never thought she would be struggling for life on her knees, like a fool.

_Perhaps it would have been better if he had just killed me, I would be no loss to the world, and I would deserve it… .

* * *

_

He had by prowling the passages under the foyer that night. The Phantom had taken habit to this over the past years. And at times he ventured up into the seen floors of the opera house, partly savoring the chance to walk about the once public corridors and rooms that he had never freely been able to go without the concerned of being seen.

It was a late night that heard a sharp crack of a noise from the boarded entrance of the opera house. He recognized the sound immediately. A Gun.

The Phantom of the Opera threw himself into a dark corner in the balcony when he heard a shift in the boards that blocked the entrance. And from his hiding place he watched in disbelief as a young woman came stumbling in through an opening in the wood. It took him only seconds to recognize the flowing brown hair and lithe form of the woman who had trespassed not a fortnight ago. She was breathing heavily when she landed on her knees, as if she had been running.

A pounding came from the other side of the boards and he heard a mans voice call out,

"_She_ went in there!" Seconds later the cracking sounds of breaking wood could be heard in the foyer. The Phantom heard the woman gasp as she stood anxious and exasperated, eyes riveted on the boarded entrance. She ran, stumbling up the grand staircase. Within moments three armed Parisian police officers in full blue uniform burst into the foyer though splintering boards, their eyes centered on the now running woman. One of the officers stepped forward and drew a pistol from deep inside his cloak. The other two followed. Loud cracks from their guns rang throughout the once silent entrance hall.

The Phantom, who was already fuming snarled in rage. He had never taken a liking to the Parisian police ever since _that _night of the fire. He never did enjoy the memory of being shot at. His lip curled in disgust, nails digging into his leather gloves.

The girl stumbled on the curving stairs as the shots rang out, she cried out in surprise and pain yet did not hesitate but continued to run. Their bullets missed her.

"Come back here you dim-witted witch!" thundered an officer savagely, taking aim again. Yet this woman had already disappeared into the grand theater. They didn't hesitate following her.

* * *

Manon ran as fast as her legs could carry her though the theater. Why had she tried to take shelter in this place, in this death trap, she didn't know. Her legs felt as if they were going to give way. They had been chasing her for avenues and streets. The aching in her legs were so sore, tears threatened to fall from her eyes. Manon let out a sardonic laugh as she ran; she would rather die running that cry. 

Manon let out a soft gasp as she felt a bullet wiz by her ear as she scrambled over the orchestral pit and up the stage. Manon heard the thundering footsteps of the officers behind her. Faltering as she ran across the stage, she dashed through the tattered curtains.

Yet as Manon curved to flee back stage she felt a powerful hand pull her into a hidden alcove behind several curtains. She opened her lips to shout but felt a firm hand clamp over her mouth. With horror running though her very veins she saw a glowing white mask emerge from in the darkness before her very eyes.

* * *

The Phantom watched as her eyes widend when she saw him. She recoiled in horror and then began to struggle in the small alcove. They were already compressed tightly together and as she thrash about the Phantom gritted his teeth as he felt her knee embed itself into his abdomen. He was growing increasingly irritated. 

"Be Quiet!" he hissed as he pressed himself harder against this woman to still her. She continued to struggle against him for a moment, then stilled, studying him with uncertain eyes. The Phantom released her mouth from his hand. They listened in silence for a few moments as the men continued to hunt for her throughout the theater. He closed his eyes, denying he noticed how firmly he was pressed against her soft bosom. He looked down and was surprised to see her eyes were full of pain. He didn't know why.

"Wait here." Phantom whispered harshly and he disappeared from the alcove.

* * *

In the darkness, the lieutenant searched for that bitch. Pistol out, he drew back the large heavy curtains warily, pointing it into the shadows. This woman was dangerous they said, so he took caution. As moved behind the curtains, he continued to feel uneasily. His uneasiness did not last long as he felt a rope tightened about his neck. 

Within minutes, all three officers were dead, their bodies strewn on the floors of his theater. He had his revenge, yet he would have to clean them of his theater floors before they started the reek.

The Phantom started to make his way back to the small alcove, not particularly expecting the girl to still be there. Yet as leaped onto the stage he caught sight of a red satin on his white shirt. Pausing, he put a gloved hand to the stain on his lower abdomen. His eyes furrowed as he tasted it. Blood. It could not have been the blood of those stupid men for he had used his lasso, not a blade or gun. Yet he himself felt no pain. He checked his skin and there was no wound to be found. It was then he understood the blood was not his own.

**Dadada! **

**A/N: I hope you liked this chapter! I'll update as soon as I can but I'm back to school this Monday. I'll try to write as much as I can under my desk during my classes! Please review and tell me what you think of this new chapter! **


	4. Sorry

**Author's Note: Hi guys, this is all my reviews and all who are waiting for the next chapter. I am really sorry for not updating today but I have major tests coming up and I really need to focus of studying. I'm not sure when I am going to update next but it should be by either Tuesday or Wednesday. Just hold out for a day or two. But I think I can guarantee that the next chapter will be longer than those before it! THANKS SO MUCH! I LOVE YOU ALL! **

**- Rogo**


	5. Wounds

**Chapter four **

"_Charles," She attempted softly, putting a hand to his arm that held the gun, gently pulling it downwards. "Charles," As she said his name over and over again, the resistance in his arm became less and less. Once his hand was completely down, he finally looked at her. Their eyes met in a solemn gaze. _

"_Please." The girl whispered, and with that took his arm. They turned their back on the older man in the distance and began to walk away. _

_The man in the distance finally spoke, "Ah! I smell fear! You know I cant shoot a man with his back turned, Moreau, You seem to know my weakness," he called out into the bitter air. "but don't forget, I also know yours." _

_Before the girl could even feel the shiver that would have ran down her spine at these words, she was shoved aside into the snow, and a deafening crack filled the deserted square. She watched as the younger man fell onto the snow covered ground. Dead. _

Manon's eyes flew open. She gasped and bolted up. In an unexpected rush excruciating pain shot up her side. She gritted her teeth in attempt to keep from crying aloud. Cursing, she slowly lay back down. She closed her eyes and gathered her wits. Manon opened her eyes again. She was in a dark room softly lit by a candle lantern that was set upon on a bedside table. She lay on a soft bed in the corner of the dusty room. A grimy vanity and a large mirror were the only furnishings in the dim room.

It was just then that Manon noticed under a woolen blanket that covered her, her bodice lay wide open to expose bandages wrapped around her waist. Eyes furrowed, she propped herself up on her elbows, and reached out to touch the dressing.

"They must be changed tonight," said a voice in the shadows.

Instinctively, Manon vaulted out of the bed, groping of a knife that wasn't there. Immense pain suddenly shot through her side, and with a whimper she collapsed onto the floor.

She felt a firm hand clasp her arm and with an unexpected gentleness set her down upon the bed. Momentarily blinded in the pain, she barley cared whose arm it was. As the throbbing subsided, Manon opened her eyes. This time she was barley surprised to see the man, the phantom, or whatever he was – of the opera, towering beside her bed. Could he be the one that dressed her wound?

In the dim light of the room, she noticed his sunken, yet firm features. A strong jaw and sculpted cheekbones. He was not old, certainly not 'old' but etched in his face were lines made by years of rejections and suffering. She would have never expected to feel sorry for a man she did not know, or a man who had tried to kill her…

Reluctant to ask the common question of 'who are you?' and 'Where am I?' she stayed silent. She looked down at the bandages and with great surprise saw that her chemise still lay wide open. For modesties sake she quickly drew it closed, biting her lip. She was more vulnerable now then she had ever been in a long time, and as always, Manon hated it. She was wounded, weak, in bed, and before a man that had wanted to kill her, yet spared and saved her life. She was once again known to the Police after many years; they were after her as if _that_ night was yesterday. She could barley move without a throbbing pain erupting from her side and nausea filling her stomach. Manon was heavily overwhelmed.

She looked up at this 'Phantom of the Opera' conscious of his piercing gaze. He was looking at her blankly, yet, she couldn't help wonder if he knew what she was thinking.

Their eyes met. She lost her self in the pooling darkness of his left eye and the stormy gray of his right eye.

All her life, if Manon had one fear, it would be to look another being in the eye, to hold their gaze, fearing that they would see her pitiful past in her eyes. Yet for the first time, as she gazed into his eyes, she felt no fear. Wonder and apprehension perhaps, but not fear. At that moment the good he had done to her, outweighed the bad. Now she owed him her life; Manon knew she was in his debt.

He pulled a wooded chair from the near vanity and sat down stealthily, swinging his dark black cloak around the chair, white mask glowing.

"What is your name?" The phantom ordered. His voice was cold, melodious and deep.

To her horror, Manon didn't hesitate but answered like a subservient child.

"Manon Moreau."

The phantom raised his brow, seeing surprised as well that she responded so quickly. But he ever so slightly looked amused.

"I must inform you, Mademoiselle, that the bullet which struck your side is imbedded deeply, and it has not been extracted it, _yet_. Tonight we must resort to the gruesome task of removing it or else the wound will become infected." He said in a doctoral manner.

Manon closed her eyes. This was the snarling man that had held her by the throat not a week ago, the man who had called her an "insolent harlot". She was perplexed and distrustful but kept her suspicions to herself.

"Are you a surgeon?" Manon asked brows furrowed.

The phantom smiled deviously, the corner of his mouth upturned.

"No, I am not a surgeon, but I am capable."

**I AM SO SORRY! I know this is not the long chapter I promised you, but…I shouldn't give you any excuses but here is one: I cant write! I know this sounds ridicules but I can't! I was sitting at my computer for three hours trying to write a long chapter but my muse is not coming to me. I feel that if I go on I might just write something that I doesn't belong (if I haven't already). I'm sorry. I broke my promise but here is a chapter anyway. I have this voice in that back of my head saying that I did something wrong about Erik's character in this chapter. If I did I apologize and if you have suggestions Please tell me! I'll rewrite this chapter if I have to. I am having a really hard time keeping Erik in character. PLEASE HELP ME! Thanks. **


	6. Behind the mirror

**Authors Note: I'm so sorry it took so long to update again and that the chp is so short. I am a slow writer! And I have a lot of school work so I have only so much time between school and sleep. You, my lovely reviews must decide whether you want longer chapters that are written over a few days or short chapter almost every day. Your reviews really help me keep writing. I love you all! gives you all a lollipops **

**If you have any questions include them in your reviews. All questions should be answered in time. (hopefully) **

**This is all I had time to write last night. I sorry. I'll try to write more! **

**Chapter 6 **

The Phantom stood behind the mirror. He watched as she slept soundly in the dark room, the dim candle lantern, still burning, casting a luminescent light on her features. Manon Moreau was older than _her_, perhaps only by a few years and she neither possessed _her _childish beauty nor _her _innocence that had so drew him into a torrent of longing those years ago.

Yet, this woman possessed some attribute that he had not seen in the twittering ballet dancers of so long ago or any other woman in that had stepped foot in his opera house. The phantom had seen a daring and fearless determination in her coal brown eyes. In every movement that she made in her pain showed her reluctance to be weak.

In the candle light, he examined her attractive yet boyish features: the supple arch of her dark brows, a truly French delicate nose, pale lips and skin that contrasted much with her tumbling brown hair. The Phantom remembered the scars upon her sides and stomach as he removed her shirt. He had dressed her bleeding wound, grimacing at the raw skin, and the small but deep hole of the bullet. He remember seeing her face up close, and seeing the gash on her brow that he presumed was that one she revived when he had thrown her to the ground. He saw a cut on her lip still coated with dry blood.

Her pallid lips and skin were signs of a fever that would soon over take her. Moreau was a disheveled beauty, but a beauty no less.

_I have been alone for so long… _He thought wistfully for a moment. Then with a growl redeemed himself,

_You have known solitude all your life; you should love loneliness now,_

He lifted a hand to his face so his fingers brushed the cold porcelain of his mask.

_Love… _

In a rush of anger, he slammed his palm into the icy mirror, sending a reverberating hum into the dark passage.

Across the dark room Moreau's eyes slowly opened and she rubbed her eyes. The Phantom watched grimly as she lay still in the bed for a few minutes.

Her eyes wondered across the dark room, settling for a moment on the mirror, then moving into the shadows. He knew she was looking for something. Moreau squinted and her eyes fell onto a dirty sack, _her_ sack if he remembered correctly, the one he had retrieved from the alcove as she slept.

Lifting herself up on her elbows, she thoughtfully bit her lip and with a determined glint in her eyes threw her legs off the bed. The phantom took a step forward to leave his hiding place behind the mirror, intending to throw this foolish girl back into the bed. Yet he hesitated, seeing that she had steadied herself on her feet. Moreau gritted her teeth and began to limp, one hand pressed against the wound on her waist, the other against the wall to steady her. The Phantom looked on astonished as she leg go of the wall and made her way towards her sack that lay only feet away. For a moment she seemed fine, walking sturdily… then Moreau stumbled…

And she collapsed.

He was instantly at her side. The Phantom kneeled, and scooped her up into his arms with surprising strength. She let out a whimper, her eyes opening slightly.

"You fool; this is the second time I have had to peel you from the floor!" He hissed acidly, stalking back to the bed, Moreau wincing at every jolting step.

He placed her back onto the bed.

"Insolent girl! I didn't do all that work to have it undone. You have a bullet imbedded in your side and You are weak." He snarled at her, stepping back. Moreau flinched at the last word, closing her eyes.

He noticed that if she had been pale before she was certainly now. Her lips were almost the same color as her skin. All blood seemed to have drained form her face, the dark circles around her eyes were more defined than ever, her eyelids drooped and her hands trembled.

_Goodness, she needs to eat, _

**Lady Evanescence**** : Thanks so much for your review! **

**Doodilydoo: Thanks for your encouragement. **

**Amanda : Thanks for your review! I hope I did get a good grade on my test too! **

**Mandy the O****: Thanks so much for reading my fan fiction. I hope I can talk to you again soon. **

**Fox of the Nova****: AHH! Please not your wrath! Thanks for your review. **


	7. The Pleasure Before the Pain

**Hi everyone, so here is the next chapter. I'm trying to make the chapters longer, but as I have said before I'm really busy so please me patient. I really thank you so much for your reviews, it really keeps me writing. **

**All questions about the Manon's sack will be answered soon. I'm trying to keep the plot flowing yet keep characters in character, so that's why its taking such a long time. Please bear with me! I'm really not sure about this chapter. I read it over and it's rather vague. Tell me what you think. **

**Every thing should reveal itself in good time! Thanks! Love you all! **

**Chapter six **

Manon savored the meal as if it were her last. Chicken, soup, warm bread, butter and sweet wine. If it were not for her painfully throbbing side she would have sworn she was in heaven. She chewed on the savory chicken, trying as hard as she could to keep a blissful smile off her face.

Manon could feel his dark eyes on her in the shadows as she sat up on the bed. But in her delight she barely noticed.

_It has been so long… _she thought licking the bitter taste of wine of her lips and savoring the warmth that filled her chest. By the end of the meal she could not help but smile slightly and half wonder if she were drunk.

"You see much better," said a familiar voice. The phantom stepped out of the shadowed of the room, mask glowing deviously, a mellow smirk planted on his face. Manon bit her lip. He drew a chair from the vanity table and sat down beside her bed.

He looked at the serving dish in her lap and the plates on it and the smirk grew. Manon looked down. Barley a crumb of bread or drop of soup lingered on the china. She had to smile.

"May I inquire about the goulash?" He asked, eyes smoldering naturally.

"Delicious."

"The chicken?"

"Exquisite."

"The bread and butter?"

"Scrumptious."

"The wine?"

"Delectable,"

To her relief, he smiled, almost a grin! She had seen him smirk, leer, and grimace, but not smile. Though she didn't admit it to herself, Manon liked it. Deep in her mind, in its far depth, she admired how handsome he was- and that was deep, deep down in her mind.

But on the surface, this man bewildered her. Merely an hour ago he was snarling and calling her a fool, a day ago he had been cold to her, and a week ago he had tried to kill her.

He stood up, retrieved the tray from her lap and placed it on the vanity. He didn't immediately return back to the chair beside her bed but disappeared in into the black corners of the room that the lantern's glow didn't reach.

Then the phantom returned, and in his hand was her dear bag.

"This is yours, I presume." He said sitting down, gently placing the sac on the puzzled Manon's lap.

Manon looked at it, eyes traveling over the familiar stains, recognizing every smudge of dirt, tracing it with her finger tips. She paused.

Manon looked up at this man beside her, gazing into his masked face- his eyes, searching.

"Thank you" She whispered.

Manon took a deep breath and rested the urge to gasp. The phantom's hands were colder that she expected upon her bare stomach, dangerously close to the wound. Yet, she could tell that it was not only his cold hands upon her as he examined the wound, which made her anxious. The upper part of her dress was bunched about her waist, which would have left her chest exposed to wandering eyes were it not for the soft blankets of the bed. She had securely tucked the blankets upper her arms so it covered her breasts.

"Its deeper than expected," The Phantom whispered, eyes furrowed as he looked upon the open wound.

She felt a cold finger apply slight pressure on her ribs. Manon grimaced, and let out another shuddering breath.

"The infection is beginning… pain as the slightest pressure is an indication of this," he almost seemed to recite.

Lines of concern formed on the visible side of his face as he said, " As we expected, we must extract the bullet _now." _

With that, he disappeared into the shadows of the rooms and returned with a jug, filled with what she assumed to be water. He sat down again, drew the bedside table, on which the candle lantern lay, closer to him and settled the jug down upon it. He drew a piece of linen cloth from the bed and dipped it into the water.

He then began to gently clean the dry blood and raw muscle around the wound.

Manon shuddered as the soaking cloth touched her skin, cold water dribbling. The dry blood was caught up in the cold drops that trickled from around her wound onto the white sheets, staining it.

Then he dropped the cloth into the jug for a moment and began to unbutton his fine black vest. Once he had shrugged it off, he threw it over to the vanity table, where his long handsome cloak also lay.

He sat back down and proceeded to examine and clean her skin.

Manon's heart skipped as she looked at him again.

His eyes were dark as she hand seen them before, his lips were set in concentration, his mask glowing. Her eyes traced over his broad shoulders. His shirt was loose; its parting slightly opened to reveal a sturdy chest. Manon's mouth went dry.

_Manon! What are you doing? _A voice in the back of her mind screamed.

The phantom seemed to sense her eyes on his and looked up at her and

Their eyes met.

She spoke the first thing that came into her mind.

"Lets get this over with,"

Moreau laid back quietly, and closed her eyes. Her breath was uneven.

"This will be painful," he said, quietly.

"That is not a problem," She snorted in a unlady-like manor, eyes still on the ceiling. There was silence for a few moments as he sorted through the metal implements on he bedside table. abruptly, Manon heard the metal clanking cease and heard him speak sternly,

"Do you trust me?"

She looked up at him, pausing. Then she nodded.

"I do." And she closed her eyes again.

**Lady Evanescence****: Thanks for reviewing! You'll know what's in the bag soon enough. **

**Galasriniel****: You are a sexy Erik fan too! I will try to get Erik in a more sexy eventually, once the two have gotten over the fact that he tried to kill her. chuckles **

**Han Futsu; Anti Normal****: Yeah! Mandy the O is my angel of writing! She's such a great writer! **

**Pickledishkiller****: Thanks for your review! **


	8. Pain

**Well, hi guys. The more the updates the shorter the chapters, the longer the chapters the longer it takes to update. I wish I was like Mandy the O (to all those who are familiar to her story)! She updates every day, along with long chapters. I envy her! turns green **

**A bunch of my beloved reviewers want to know the following: more about Manon's past, what's in the bag, why the hell Erik can perform surgery ( I tool right of my artistic license on this one (hint: they said he was a genius)), and wh****y he saved her. **

**My answer to these questions is this: They will eventually come up! Every thing will happen in good time! (except from my updating rate! growls in frustration, bangs head on table and shouts "I need you muse! ") **

**Ah, yes, almost forgot. Thanks to those who corrected my French in the first chapter! I have slightly abandoned the idea of writing in French sentences now, but in this chapter Manon does curse in French. I don't know if I used it correctly, however. I just saw it in my French dictionary and just shoved it in here. **

**Well, here we go, **

**Chapter seven  
**

He tried to ignore Moreau when her face grew dark with pain. He picked up the catiling, a flat silver instrument, somewhat like a shaving knife. Stretching the skin around the wound, he began to pick at the skin red that was torn unevenly. She shuddered as he began to peel off a dead layer of skin, blood beginning to flow again. Putting the catiling down he picked out the sounder, a long thin implement with a curved sinister hook.

His hands were steady, skilled as any surgeons.

* * *

Manon had certainly felt physical pain before, but this, this was terrible. The wound and the skin around it throbbed and burned. She would have thrashed and screamed if it her past had not bound her to a manner of fortitude. She clamped her eyes shut, not wanting to see the long curved instrument as it neared, hoping that it would never reached the wound. 

She could feel nothing for a moment,

Then she let out a strangled gasp,

Pain.

* * *

"Merde," was the quiet clenched curse that came from Moreau's mouth. He could see that Moreau tried to keep from writhing, but she shuddered constantly. He began to open the now bloodying hole, stretching it. Not only was the blood already making the handle of the sounder slippery but her trembling made it even harder. Hesitantly, he lifted the instrument from her wound and looked up at this woman, watching her pale face suppress a pained expression. 

She opened her eyes, slightly bloodshot as they were. Except from Moreau's ragged breathing, the dark room was silent.

Then Moreau reached out and clasped his bloodied hand in hers, pain and a new softness clashing in her red eyes. She gently drew his hand to her wound, the sounder in his grip.

"Please," she whispered.

Without a word, the Phantom continued.

* * *

Moreau was as pale a marble as he finished tucking the ends of the fresh linen bandage he had wrapped her waist in. He followed her gaze to the bedside table and onto a single gory bullet that lay beside his numerous blood-covered implements. She seemed to be in a throbbing daze, but he was relived to see that her ragged breath had lessened and her eyes were clearer. 

He stood up, dipped his bloodied had in the jug to clean it, and began to gather the instruments in a tough linen carrier.

As he turned to leave she spoke,

"I appreciate…this, monsieur "She said quietly, tired eyes still on her bandages, avoiding his gaze.

He nodded politely,

"Sleep now, Mademoiselle."

And she did.

**Slightly lame ending, is it not? But hopefully it'll get better. **

**Galasriniel****: I'll send for a repair-man to repair that chair! **

**writing-impaired****: Thanks for your review! You really boosted my self-writing-esteem. **

**And LOVE to all those magnificent others who reviewed. **


	9. Of Cloaks, books and the Cold

**Once again LOVE to all my reviews (this just another sorry attempt to make this chapter seem longer). **

**Chapter Eight **

The phantom had never heard of one that slept for so long. This woman was in slumber for a whole night _and_ a day, only drifting awake for moments. He supposed sleep would do some good for her healing wounds, so he let her be. The Phantom retreated to his abode as she slept, returning to the room only once to relight the candle lantern and to bestow a tray of food on the bedside table for when she awakened. His eyes fell on her as he silently crept back into the shadows and behind the safety of his mirror.

Moreau's skin was still so very blanched, and dark circles hung under her eyes.

_Perhaps the fever will still draw close_, he suspected dourly as he stared at her pallid lips. He gritted his teeth, wondering if taking care of this woman was more than it was worth.

Then the memory of the touch of her hand, and the softness in her eyes, came into his mind.

Her tired, hollow voice filled his ear, _"I appreciate…this, monsieur" s_he had said, eyes turning away from him. Even in the midst of her pain she still held her pride.

It had been to many years since he had felt the soft skin of a woman; however callused Moreau's hand had been. She had called him _monsieur, _not a name he usually dubbed.

The Phantom's eyes went to her again as she shifted only slightly in her sleep. Her chestnut hair was spread wide over the pillow, flowing around her head in lithe ripples. He was torn between admiration and pity for this young woman. Yet an undying suspicion stayed.

Did she know the price upon his head? The chances were unlikely, and even if she did, her own flight from the police proved her a fugitive as well…

but for what crime?

Movement from the bed disrupted the Phantom's thoughts, drawing his eyes back to the young woman.

Moreau was now awake, and hopelessly attempting to sit up. But in her current state she was most expectedly not able to. She laid her head down onto the soft pillow, obvious defeat in her eyes. She lay still upon the bed, arms shielding her squinting eyes from the light of the lantern, no matter how dim the flame burned.

He was not aware of the cold he had so become acquainted with. Moments pasted before the Phantom noticed the shivers that made her tremble under the covers.

_Or perhaps it's the fever, _

He watched for a few moments as she continued to shiver on the bed. Before the thought of retrieving a blanket ever invaded his mind, Moreau slowly reached out to her canvas sack that lay on the chair beside her bed, and feebly pulled it to her. She reached inside and weakly began to pull out what looked like a black cloak. It was indeed a cloak, made of heavy wool, dyed in a rich midnight blue. It was long with a weighty hood. The cloak was clearly made for a man, and noticeably a rich one. This was certainly not a coat for those who lived on the streets.

To the Phantom, it looked oddly familiar.

* * *

Manon then began the excruciating task of getting the cloak around her shoulders without having hell shoot up her side. This was not so easy, so she abandoned her attempt and simply lay back and buried herself under the heavy wool cloak. 

Even with the new shroud, the cold air continued to make her teeth chatter. Yet the cloak helped none the less, bringing back warm quiet memories. Under the soft wool, Manon could still smell the handsome musky scent of ground nutmeg. She turned her body slowly, taking in a long hissing breath at a stinging pain in hers side, as she faced the wall. She lay there for a few moments, tucking her fingers against her chin.

Manon didn't notice it a first, but slowly a shadow descended behind her, swiftly shrouding the lantern's glow. She felt her stomach clench in some unexplained fear. She knew it was him, The Phantom of the Opera, but such silence in his movement worried her.

"Are you still cold?" a grim voice whispered at her ear.

Manon tool a deep breath to calm herself. She stiffly turned, looking up at the towering man bedside her bed.

"S-slightly, yes" She breathed regaining her composure, covering her passing fear.

Then Phantom nodded, mask glowing, and in one graceful movement, he unhooked his dark black cloak. He gently threw it over her, sheet, blanket, wool cloak and all.

Manon looked at the coat, then at him. His wore a waistcoat of a yawning burgundy, and a loose linen shirt.

"Thank you," She said quietly.

The Phantom nodded and sat down on the chair.

* * *

They were silent for a few moments, Moreau quietly fingering his cloak, the Phantom watching her. He didn't know what to say, until his leg came into contact with something as he shifted. He looked down to see Moreau's sack against his leg. Leaning down, the Phantom picked it up. 

"What it inside, Mademoiselle? I you don't mind me asking." He said serenely, handing the bag to her. She took it, a soft light growing in her eyes.

"Just some simple possessions." was her answer. With that, she tried to sit up, wincing. So he reached out to help her, taking her arm, and lightly propping her against the headboard.

She nodded again to him in thanks and then reached into the sack. The Phantom watched curiously as she rummaged around for a moment. She then pulled out what was obviously a book, the binding worn, and the pages yellow.

Curious, the Phantom drew closer and read the cover.

_Music: A History _

_By Philip Durand _

A look of longing crossed his face.

* * *

**What should happen next? Include your suggestions in your reviews! Love you all! **


	10. Value

**I know the chapters are not that good right now, but I really think they will become more interesting and intriguing! So bear with me! **

**There's too much info to give in a chapter while keeping them in character, and moving the plot forward. I had much trouble writing this chapter! I'll understand if the chapter is in kind words…_disagreeable_. All should be reviled in time though. **

**Chapter nine**

"I know not what you value, Monsieur but whatever I own, which I must admit is not much, is yours. This book is the most valuable thing I own... worth about three hundred francs, first addition. And I'm sure, if we find it, my sword as well will be worth something…" She paused, searching for words.

"I am in your debt, I owe you my life." These words seemed to cost every ounce of pride in her being, until she had none left.

"No," The Phantom replied darkly.

"You owe me nothing. Call the fact you are still living my attempt to redeem myself from the harm I caused you on our first encounter."

The images of that night flooded back to her, and she looked up at this unblinking phantom's eyes. She had almost forgotten about their duel in the theater. It was only now that she discerned the same man who had almost taken her life with the man who had helped her and who was now at her side, mask glowing as maliciously as it did a week ago. But now Manon could not fear him, respect him perhaps, but not fear him.

There was silence between them for a few moments. Then Manon spoke,

"I still feel obliged, Monsieur; accept this book, my sword-"

"What good is a talented swordsman without her sword?" Was the response.

As Manon looked up at his expressionless face she could not help but feel soft satisfying pride fill her chest.

"Please, then the book." She said quickly, offering the book gently to him. The phantom accepted it tenderly, fingers caressing the worn bindings and the yellowing pages. Manon looked on, curious of his tenderness.

And to Manon's almost complete satisfaction, he said,

"I will accept the book, but only to borrow. It had been long since I have last read a good book. When I finish shortly, I will return it to you."

"But, Monsieur" She hesitated looking at uncertainly at her entwining fingers.

"I have no use for it, you see, I cannot read." The phantom stared at her incredulously in his own serene way. Though her speech was somewhat roughened by the ghastly streets of what was the underprivileged Paris, it was none the less elegant. "So there is no point in me keeping it" she continued.

Once again there was silence between them.

So many questions screamed in her mind at that moment. _God, what am I doing here? Why can't I just become well and leave? Who is this man, really? _Once again she felt overwhelmed; her mind seemed to be swirling in mist.

The Phantoms cool voice cut through the fog like a knife.

"Why were they after you?" He asked. She immediately knew what he meant.

"Thievery, I stole bread" She said simply, regaining her composure, looking as innocent as she could.

"Certainly, the police do not chaise and shoot at a woman for thievery alone,"

"Thievery is all I am guilty of monsieur, I assure you." she lied, gathering enough courage to look him in the eye.

Yet in her mind a malicious voice shouted, _Murderer. _


	11. Fugatives

**Authors Note: Hope you like this chapter. **

**Chapter 10 **

He let out a gruff growl.

_They're still prancing about? _ He thought angrily as he stared down at the plaza.

A malicious annoyance rose quickly in the Phantom as he once again caught sight of the officers on the street. The phantom had been observing these _policiers_ as they prowled around the plaza for a good part of the evening. From the cold shadows of Opera House roof he watched as they went on interrogating passers by, shoving a particular piece of paper onto their faces.

He had not seen so many Parisian Police officers right on the streets before. And the phantom did not need to ask why they were there.

He had his speculations…

Manon Moreau was guilty of something far more wicked than thievery.

The sun was setting at an unusually swift pace. It took only minutes for the shadows of night to steal into every hollow of Paris. Yet, even in the increasing cold, the officers continued to lurk about.

As The Phantom hid in the shadows his trail of thought wandered to the past days.

Moreau was beginning to improve. The wound was healing, and though she was still unusually pale, bits color had returned to her cheeks. He couldn't explain the odd satisfaction he felt when he thought of her increasing health.

Silence was still all that they held in common so far. A few words could not help but be exchanged, but Moreau was still reluctant to speak, and the Phantom was still disinclined to converse.

Nevertheless, the Phantom could tell, it was in silence that they both felt most comfortable.

* * *

He returned to Moreau's room shortly after.

To his surprise, he found her standing up, arm against the wall to support her, and slowly walking across the room. She was still in her thin undergarments, and her feet were bare on the cold wooden floor. Her hair was tousled, and her face was pale, but her eyes were bright, filled with some merry sentiment.

When she caught sight of him emerging from the shadows, the merriment fled and was filled with some hesitant expression. As he stepped closer, she backed up against the wall, using it so support her. Moreau looked away, expecting some reprimand.

"You are not fit walk mademoiselle." Said his cold tone.

"I'm walking, aren't I?"

"But soon you will find yourself in the same position as before. On the floor."

"I assure you, I will be fine. I believe that if I can just regain my attire, I will be on my way, and out of your hair." She continued.

"Once I am dressed, all I need is directions to the way out of the opera house… If we are still in the opera house."

"Yes, we are indeed still in the opera house."

"Wonderful"

"And I am sure the officers who are currently lurking outside will be very eager to see you."

Moreau looked at him sharply. His eyes were wide set in sardonic innocence, lips curved into a wily smirk.

"They have been searching all day, for something, or someone. The Parisian police have found it their right to upset all who pass their way, and inform them of what they have been searching for. Whoever that might be…"

Moreau now looked distressed. Her eyes were filled with some unbelieving significance and she looked at him, then away at the floor. She was suddenly pale, and she lid down the wall a bit. The Phantom believed she would have slid all the way to the floor if he had not caught her by the arm and gently lead her back to the bed.

As she sat down in all her anguish and avoided his eye, she did not notice her shift had slipped lightly from her shoulder. He would have looked away, but the soft curve her shoulder held him. Smooth pale skin covered her neck, shoulders, luminous by the dim candle light. His eyes traveled across her neck, then to her shoulder and then farther down to the soft curves of her breasts, still covered by her shift… the Phantom forcedly turned his head to look away, eyes settling upon anything he could find. He vehemently probed the building desire to be gone, halfheartedly not wanting it so subside.

But the ache did not last long. Moreau drew the shift back up, and over her shoulder, still in a state of uncertainty.

The phantom looked at her again,

"It is you who they are looking for, are they not, mademoiselle?" he asked grimly.

She did not answer.

"I will find out sooner or later." The phantom said, taking a seat on the chair beside the bed.

"And when you do, I will find myself cast upon on the streets again. So I might as well leave now."

The Phantom reached out, and grasped her wrist. Manon's first instinct was to draw back, but his grip was firm. She felt his fingers travel to her palm and then clasp her hand.

"As long as you wish, you may stay here. No one will find you." He said in a deep voice. His eyes were stern behind his mask. But they were also sincere.

Manon looked at him incredulously, lips parted.

"Why are you being so kind to me, monsieur?" She asked honestly.

"Perhaps because I am a fugitive myself,"

* * *

**Love to all who reviewed! **


	12. Bad Dreams and New Touches

**Hi guys. Sorry I haven't updated in so long. I have been on vacation and I found myself reluctant to do anything that requires movement. **

**I have read all of your reviews and have tried to take all suggestions into consideration. I have to say, I agree with all of you, the plots' a bit slow now, but it should pick up the pace soon. Hopefully! **

**Enjoy! **

**(Oh and I love you so much! I never dreamed I would get a hundred reviews or more!) **

**Chapter eleven **

"Why are you being so kind to me, monsieur?" She asked honestly.

"Perhaps because I am a fugitive myself,"

Manon paused and gave him a wary look. Then the thought came to her, those three officers that had chased her…

He read her like a book and nodded.

"Are they…?"

"Dead. Yes,"

He was expecting a shocked air, a look of horror, or even a gasp of disbelief but no expression alike came. Instead a quiet and agreeable manner came over her, and she tilted her head.

"Oh," was all she uttered

The Phantom fell silent as well.

_She doesn't need to know anymore_, _three murders is enough. _ He thought, shoving the remnants of years ago out of his mind.

* * *

_He was pleading now, like a woman. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead, and his face became a mask of terror. His nostrils flared a he gulped for air furiously in his dread. He was trembling, and shrieking for mercy with a voice of a child. _

"_Please, please…mercy!" he whimpered, eyes riveted on the shadow in the darkness. _

"_Would you have shown mercy?" whispered another voice, a younger, more womanly voice._

"_Yes! But please, don't-" _

_A loud shot rang out like thunder, and with a thud, the man hit the floor, all fears gone. All feeling gone in fact, in an instant, unlike the slow dribbling blood from his temple. _

Manon sat up gasping,

_Gods, not again._

She wanted to scream and drown out the memory, and the shattering guilt that came with it. Manon clutched her head, and closed her eyes.

_Please, let it go away _she pleaded. The remorse and shame continued to shriek in her mind,

But the sound of her name, and a hand on her shoulder hushed the deafening sounds of her own dread.

"Manon," whispered the deep voice,

Manon opened her eyes, and her mind cleared. Suddenly she could feel the faint throbbing of her side. She looked up, and into the glowing mask, and brooding face of the Phantom.

"Bad dream?" He asked. She nodded again and lay down.

The Phantom sat down, at his usual spot, his face dark with concern.

He wore a simple loose dress shirt and a dark unbuttoned waist coat over it. Handsome but dulled boots rode over fine black trousers. Manon, distinctly tried not to notice the way his long firm legs shifted under the black fabric and how, as he sat and leaned on his knees, the way part in his shirt revealed a striking chest.

In the dim light, she could see the handsome muscles shift and her mouth went dry.

"Mademoiselle," he said,

Manon looked away in horror, hoping he did not notice her quickly beating heart and wandering eyes.

* * *

Under his stern expression, the Phantom could not help but mentally smirk. He had caught her wandering eye. 

_Perhaps I still have it, _he sneered.

* * *

Manon only looked up when she heard the soft lapping of water in the cup the Phantom held out to her. She reached out to accept it and in the process, felt his fingers brush gently with hers. Though her face did not show it this time, she felt her heart quicken at his touch, and was confused by her own his affect on her. 

She took a sip of the cold water, and felt it cool her throat and her sweaty chest. Familiar silence filled the space between them. Then without a word, he stood up to leave.

"Monsieur," He paused before entering the shadows and turned to look at her.

"Are you truly the Phantom of the Opera?"

"That is what they call me, yes." He replied. " but do you think me a ghost?"

She shook her head. He once again made to leave when her voice stop him.

"Would you have a name, good Phantom?"

A soft smile appeared at the words _good phantom._ But he did not answer immediately. Manon watched silently as he seemed to battle with himself for a moment. He turned his back to her, and for a moment she thought he wouldn't answer. But then he spoke,

"It is Erik," was his utterance as he so disappeared into the shadows.

* * *

**O.K, I need your advice for upcoming chapters: **

**Which pet do you think would best suit Erik? A puppy or a kitten? **

**Thanks! Please review! **


	13. Music

**Hi guys, Hope this chapter is alright. Its mostly description. It was my chance to quicken up the plot a bit. **

**Thanks to all who answered my Puppy or kitten question! Its should come into play some where up ahead. **

**Chapter twelve **

That night when Manon had gone to sleep, it was music that had shushed her nightmares away and it was music that woke her again. A soft distance melody, from where, she didn't know. But she was drawn to it like a like a moth to a candle.

Manon could hear it softly echoing, an organ, in the darkness when she woke. Driven by a reason now pulsing in the back of her mind, her soul, she lifted herself onto her feet, away from the security and warmth of the bed, blankets, and cloak.

She could feel the cold and hard wood of the floors beneath her feet, as she limped, candle lantern it hand into the unexplored shadows. The music entranced her, and drew her into the darkness, beckoning her to find it source, to hear the melody sung into her ears.

The music was soft, not quite a lullaby, but a haunting quiet berceuse. Manon could now care less about the painful throbbing at her side, her disheveled appearance, or the freezing air about her unprotected skin. All she could feel at that moment was the music.

She limped across the room, raising the candle lantern to see before her. The room was empty, except from a large frosty mirror opposite her and a latched wooden door before her.

Logically, she limped towards the door to find it unlocked, and followed the melody into the darkness.

In the dim light of the lantern, as she moved on, she could see scattered and burnt scaffoldings strewn about the floors and ash filled globe gas lamps that lined he walls. Manon suspected she was in the backstage area of the theatre. The sight of the tattered curtains of the stage confirmed it.

Still deeply overcome by the haunting song she wandered further into the darkness.

She barely acknowledged that she passed the small alcove where the Phantom now known to her as 'Erik' had in a sense, saved her life. But all that filled her mind at that moment was the persistent tune. It seemed to unwind all her fears, all of her past and replace it with a lingering envy for night.

Yet as Manon moved onward, farther away from her room, and farther into the dark, she notice the that the music grew fainter. The fainter it grew the lower Manon's heart sank. She needed to hear it and feel it longer. Manon halted and stood still. Listening closely, she tried to find it again.

Lantern held high, she began to quickly limp back to the room.

Dashing into the pitch darkness of the room, she listened again. The music was certainly stronger. Curious, she drew close the large mirror that hung still against the wall.

The sound indeed grew louder, but still echoing in the distance.

Manon was now in font of the mirror, looking directly at her own disheveled features sharply cast in the lantern light. She pressed her ear again the icy glass. None of this made sense to her at that moment, but it didn't matter. She could still hear it, beautiful and haunting as ever. She slid down the glass, to her knees, not even bothering to wince at the pain that rushed to her side.

And she closed her eyes and just sat there, letting the quiet music softly, and gently surround her. The lingering melody unfurled its splendor, almost to the point that she could just grasp it. It seemed to purge all the thoughts of the past she knew and instead let her feel as if she had no past, only a future filled with a strange new and beautiful world.

Her spirit soared as she listened, and the music caressed her. Manon could almost feel it pass through her skin, every pore. She savored each sensation and hoped this sweet intoxication would never depart.

But it did, as if all the remaining warmth in her body had suddenly been replaced with bitter cold.

Manon furrowed her brow. She could hear nothing now except for her deep shuddering breaths. She could not tell whether it was the pain in her side or the fact that she could no longer hear the music that caused absolute agony to course through to her. She pressed her ear to the icy glass, her breath instantly fogging it.

Silence

And cold,

That was all she could feel.

Once her mind had cleared, she found herself on the cold wooded floor, leaning awkwardly against the freezing mirror, her side throbbing excruciatingly. For the first time since she woke, Manon noticed how cold it was. She began to tremble feverishly on the floor, dizzy from her now open wound, and empty from the sudden absence of the music.

_Why had it ceased? Where had it come from? _

Manon didn't know how long she sat there, and she didn't know why. No thoughts seemed to pass her mind until, with a curious soft draft of air that snuffed the flame of her lantern, the mirror, in which she leaned, sifted.

She didn't have the strength no jump in fright, or surprise, as her side knotting in pain. She lamely fell forward, the glass no longer there to support her, into what seemed to be a damp passage.

Her eyes traveled up warily and met, with a sinking feeling, the familiar glowing white mask.

She lay there pitiful as before, awkwardly twisted, and trembling in the darkness.

Erik didn't need to wonder why he had found her there. He knew that she had been listening to him play. In the deep silence, even his music from deep in the cellars could be heard.

What could he have been thinking?

He knew not whether he should be angry or softened. Part of him felt violated. His music had not been shared often, and, he felt, to the unworthy ear it should never be heard. What he wrote and played for himself was part of him, a glimpse into his own feeling and soul. Those who heard him were given a glimpse pass his built cold exterior and it angered him they did so.

Yet, simultaneously, Erik could not help think Moreau was indeed a worthy ear, or at least an unsuspecting one. In her desperate state he felt nothing but pity.

He bent down to meet her eye and she spoke,

"It was you…" was what passed her lips before she seemed to crumple back onto the floor in a faint.

Erik was beside her in an instant. She was desperately pale, and a cold sweat had broken on her brow. The room was now exceedingly cold, even for him.

His heart sank; he had left her to freeze to death. And even through the darkness, he noticed blood lightly seeping through her open shift.

Lifting her, he made his decision.

Erik turned, and with Moreau spent in his arms, carried her back into the shadowy passage, the Mirror sliding gently into place behind them.

**I integrated the Music of the Night lyrics into the descriptions (if you haven't noticed) But it is however not the song itself that Erik is plaing. Sorry if it's a bit confusing but the descriptions of the song were perfect. Sorry if it was kinda cheesy. **


	14. A sad goodbye and the Phantom's lair

**Hi guys. I have bad news. This story has become a real burden to me, and its hard to write knowing I have a ton of work every moment. I'm not sure if I'm going to continue with this story. Perhaps I might update now and then but I just don't think I'll to continue. If any of you would like to continue with this story for me just let me know. Sorry, but I LOVE and thank you for all of your support. **

Manon woke slowly and contentedly, her eyes reluctant to open. She was warm, comfortably set underneath large blankets, and snug upon very soft pillows. She was tempted to purr in her ease. Everything was so velvety soft, and in a way affectionate. But most importantly she was warm, deliciously warm.

Then Manon paused, heart sinking. Though comfortable, the blankets were not of the familiar cotton of the bed she had laid in for days before, nor was the pallet as cozy. This was unquestionably not her bed.

She bolted upright. And as many times before, she felt a painful throb explode from her side. As forced herself back down, eyes were wide, she looked about her.

Around her were numerous candles, glistening softly before black gossamer curtains that were hung from uneven cavern walls. Manon frowned and bit her tongue.

Not only was she not in her bed, she was not in her room.

She lay on a spacious bed, filled with deep crimson pillows and velvet coverlets. The bed was set oddly into the back of a shaped pewter swan, the head curving gracefully at Manon's feet.

As she lay there suspicions for a few more moments, the memory of the music came back to her. She remembered the distant melody in her mind and the way she had been drawn to it. She remembered a large mirror, and how the it seemed to come from there. She remembered the cold and emptiness that had filled her when the music had stopped. Lastly she could recall the way the mirror had slid open and the handsome white mask it had revealed.

With much trouble, Manon lifted herself from the bed onto her weakened limbs. She limped towards the curtains, eyes on the indistinct flickering of candles beyond. Her blouse was splayed open to reveal new and clean linen bandages about her waist. If her cheeks would have been accustomed to it, she would have flushed at the thought of his eyes upon her bosom as she replaced her dressings. But she was no blushing maid, so her embarrassment was forced to express with a lurch in her chest.

Her embarrassment fled as she pushed the gossamer curtains aside, all thoughts replaced by wonder, her breath caught in her throat.

Before her lay an immense cavern, a high ceiling of jagged dark rocks. The sight below was nonetheless miraculous. A radiant lake lapped at a grotto in the large cavern.

Manon stepped from behind the sheer curtains, side throbbing.

A mahogany desk lay in the corner, its surface clattered with various things, and next to it were large upright mirrors covered in dusty sheets. Glistening candles lit every inch of the cavern, and numerous candelabras were placed around a handsome pipe organ up against the wall.

And it was in a soft glow of the candles that light revealed a dark figure that sat at the organ.

With one hand, the Phantom was scribbling frantically upon a paper that was propped up against the keys, a quiet hum at his lips. His other hand glided across the keys silently playing an unheard piece. He seemed too absorbed in his work to notice her just yet.

Manon moved forward, her attentions fully upon the Phantom, so that she did not notice a short step carved into the hard floor. And expectantly, she tipped and stumbled.

The phantom had apparently heard her, and whipped around just in time to see her knees painfully hit the floor. To her surprise his eyes were half filled with exasperation and the other half with amusement.

"You foolish child," muttered the phantom before he half picked her up from the floor.

"You forgot to mention clumsy," muttered Manon once on her feet. She cast him an apologetic look.

"How could now be so stealthy if a sword duel but so very awkward else where?" Manon blushed at his comment.

"If you keep insisting to keep out of bed, then at least sit down in a chair."

He led her to a single chair at his mahogany desk.

Hand pressed to her side she sat down and looked at up at him, then around at the cavern.

"Welcome to my humble abode," the Phantom said, eyes riveted on her as she stared around in admiration.

"It's certainly distinctive," she said quietly. Silence settled between them again. Then Manon spoke up, eyes curious.

"It was you... the music, Wasn't it?" The phantom nodded, and gestured to the pipe organ.

"Indeed, forgive me if I disturbed your sleep."

Manon looked at him in intriguingly, "It was beautiful. ...It seems you are a knight in shining armor, a surgeon, and a musician all at once."

He let out a soft chuckle and Manon's heart skipped a beat. She found that she liked his laugh, deep and cool as it was. Part of his smile disappeared into the mask, as his lips curved into a dark smirk on the other side of his face. Manon secretly noticed the graceful way his unkempt hair fell before of dark brows.

The Phantom wore simple black trousers and a loose open shirt revealing the welcome familiar chest…

Manon closed her eyes and looked away gritting her teeth.

_Manon, stop it! _


	15. Great news for readers!

Dear readers,

I have some wonderful news. A fellow writer, Nunziata, has been wonderful enough to continue The Silence Broken. If you enjoyed the story, please check up with Nunziata on her profile and read her continued chapters of the story between Manon and Erik. I have read her work and am extremely pleased with it. Enjoy!


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